


Platonically Spitefully Married

by mercuryhatter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, M/M, Queerplatonic Relationships, because how is there not a college AU already, in which Crowley and Aziraphale get drunk and married, unofficially and spitefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>because obviously the only solution to people thinking you're married is to be married. (note: no actual marriage happens at this time.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Platonically Spitefully Married

               It was a widely accepted truth at a particular university that Anthony J. Crowley and the kid with the weird angel name were boyfriends. Widely accepted, that is, by everyone except Anthony J. Crowley and the kid with the weird angel name, whose name was Aziraphale, thank you very much, and no, you couldn’t shorten it, really now, it wasn’t that hard to pronounce. But really, the rest of the student body at large would argue, what were they all supposed to think when Aziraphale routinely showed up at Crowley’s dorm room with freshly baked pastries and didn’t leave until the following morning? (He didn’t bring the wine because Crowley already had that under his bed, and in copious quantities. Crowley was a unique breed of college student who was drunk just as often as any other, but instead of cheap beer and vodka, he drank exclusively expensive wines. His parents’ money had to go somewhere, after all, and spending it on things like textbooks and food would just be silly. Especially when his not-boyfriend made an amazing curry.)

           “I don’t understand it,” Crowley said, a little louder than necessary given that he was lying with his head on Aziraphale’s pudgy stomach and the other boy should have no trouble hearing him, but he’d lost the ability to modulate his volume about half a bottle ago. “I don’t even like men. I don’t even like people. Why would I date you?”

           “Well, if you were going to date a people, I’d probably be the most likely choice,” Aziraphale mused, his slightly sticky fingers in Crowley’s hair and his head resting back against the wall. Crowley made a face and flicked his tongue between his lips in a curious characteristic gesture of his.

           “Well, okay, point taken, but why would you date me? You don’t even…” Crowley frowned, suddenly sitting up and inadvertently jabbing a sharp elbow into Aziraphale’s abdomen as he turned. “I don’t even know what you like.”

           “Merlot?” Aziraphale supplied, and Crowley nodded, satisfied.

           “’M almost out,” he said, sounding disappointed as he laid back down.

           “Of Merlot?”

           “Mmm.”

           “Sad.”

           “I thought so.”

           “Should fix that.”

           “’s far away.”

           “Mmm.”

           Aziraphale slid down the wall so that he was sprawled out across the floor, displacing Crowley, who made several increasingly disgruntled noises as they tried to rearrange themselves with a minimum of bruising and even less fine motor control. The resulting pile of limbs was anatomically unlikely and gymnastically impressive, but neither boy particularly noticed or cared. There was a contented drunken silence.

           “Seems to me that they shouldn’t get to decide who we’re dating when they can’t even pronounce your name,” Crowley announced at length, from somewhere around the vicinity of Aziraphale’s knee.

           “Some of them call you… Tony,” Aziraphale replied, face wrinkled up in abject distaste. Crowley’s expression was soon creased to match and he shook his head vehemently.

           “Bastards, the lot of them.”

           “Irr—unre—irreve—“ Aziraphale cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Not to be redeemed.”

           “That’s the one,” Crowley agreed. “We should get married or something. That’d show them.”

           “Should we?”

           “Platonically spitefully married.”

           “…my dear, I think you might be brilliant.”

**Author's Note:**

> I may possibly end up writing more (also possibly involving actual marriage) but don't get your hopes up


End file.
